


Taikatalvi

by quiettoxic



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Also horror movies and metal music, Because I mean they're still Norway and Finland, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Hetalia Kink Meme, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-16 00:32:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3467762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiettoxic/pseuds/quiettoxic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Norway and Finland spend a romantic evening together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taikatalvi

**Author's Note:**

> And another kink meme deanon! [The prompt](http://hetalia-kink.dreamwidth.org/84699.html?thread=513387739#cmt513387739) called for romantic relationship sex, and that's basically it. The title is taken from a Nightwish song and means 'Magic Winter' in Finnish. I think that's a very fitting pairing name, but that aside.  
> Hope you like!

There’s something to be said for power metal, Norway muses. It is, at the very least, better at creating a romantic atmosphere than death metal, which he normally prefers. But Finland likes power metal, so power metal it is, because this night is especially for him. Norway hums along as he arranges the ingredients for their dinner on the kitchen counter. Finland can arrive any minute now. He sent a message when he was leaving his meeting with Sweden, and if Norway’s calculations are correct, he should be almost here.  
  
He counts the tomatoes, just to have something to do, cringes a bit when a singer goes a little too high. He’s not nervous, but he is excited. His and Finland’s relationship is not new, even if in nation terms it’s still relatively young, but the element of wonder is still there. There’s still things they don’t know about each other – misconceptions built upon by years and years of second-hand friendship, plain new discoveries – and they’re learning, or re-learning, all of them, slowly.  
  
Norway skips to the next song just as the doorbell sounds, and he walks to the door to open it.  
  
Finland looks a little rosy, his hair is windswept, and his lips stretch into a happy grin when Norway silently beckons him inside.  
  
“Ooh,” the Finn says while he takes off his coat and his scarf, “something smells nice. Have you been baking?”  
  
Norway takes the coat to hang it on the rack. “Dessert. I thought we might make dinner together.”  
  
“Sounds fun!” Finland says. When he’s got his shoes off as well, he faces Norway. “Hey.”  
  
“Hey,” Norway returns, smiling slightly. He gets his hands around Finland’s hips to pull him a little closer, nudges the man’s face up with his nose. Finland chuckles and pushes his own ice-cold nose into Norway’s cheek. “ _Fin_ , c’mon,” the Norwegian nation complains, but he doesn’t turn his face away. It’s not like he isn’t used to cold.  
  
Hands on Norway’s shoulders, Finland turns his head up to press his lips against Norway’s. “Sorry,” he mutters, laughter in his voice. As always. One of the things Norway admires most about Finland is his never-ending optimism, his penchant for seeing the good in situations, and in people.  
  
His lips are cold but soft. Norway closes his eyes for a moment, savors the feeling. Then he pulls away to look at Finland. From this close, he can see the freckles across the bridge of his nose, the tiny scars littering his face, evidence of years of war and conflict. Norway is – maybe he’s being sappy, but he’s learned to be protective of these sorts of moments, and he’s glad that Finland trusts him with them, and that he can trust Finland with them as well.  
  
“So,” he says, eventually, “dinner. I was thinkin’ salmon with pecans and some salad?” His thumbs are stroking slow circles into Finland’s hips through his wrinkled dress shirt.  
  
“Oh, like what you made last Christmas?” Finland’s face turns dubious. “That I barely got any of because Denmark ate the whole fucking thing?”  
  
“Yeah, that. Can’t trust Den with anything, let alone food.”  
  
“That sounds really good, though. And I’m hungry, so let’s get started!” He disentangles himself from Norway and starts in the direction of the kitchen. Norway smiles and follows him.

* * *

Cooking is something that all of the Nordics enjoy, even if they don’t always agree on what they should be making and Norway and Denmark much prefer baking pastries while the other three are more ‘let’s-make-dinner-for-the-whole-world’ kind of people. But, case in point, cooking has always been a relatively safe, enjoyable activity between them, and Norway and Finland actually got to this point in their relationship during such an activity. That did mean there wasn’t much food to actually eat when all was said and done, but Norway likes to think the end justified the means in that case. Following that event, making dinner together has become a staple of their relationship, so to speak.  
  
It does take rather longer than it would ordinarily do to prepare the salmon for the oven.  
  
“Norway,” Finland says from very close behind the man in question, when he’s stopped trying to sing along to the dramatic music for a moment. His chin lands on Norway’s shoulder before the nation can turn around, so he just continues mixing honey and mustard. “What _did_ you make for dessert?”  
  
“Hmm, no,” Norway replies. “It’s a surprise.”  
  
“Aw, Nor!” His arms snake around Norway’s waist, chest pressed against his back. “Can I guess?”  
  
“If ya want to, but where’s the fun in that?”  
  
Finland presses his lips against Norway’s neck, murmurs, “Wouldn’t it earn me a reward if I guessed right?”  
  
“It would earn ya nothin’ more than knowing what’s for dessert.” He puts his spoon down and wriggles around until he’s facing Finland, pressed between the counter and the man’s hips. “I might throw in a reward if ya can wait, though.”  
  
Finland grins brightly. “What kind of reward?”  
  
Norway kisses him, slow and deep, bringing his hands up to twine in Finland’s hair. When he pulls away, he murmurs, “Wait and see,” and uses his boyfriend’s momentary lapse in concentration to duck out from his embrace and grab the salmon from the refrigerator.  
  
“You’re evil,” Finland complains, and Norway smiles, makes a drawer fly open and a knife jump into his hand with a thought. “You’re an evil fucking sorcerer,” Finland continues. “And didn’t I tell you not to make sharp things fly?”  
  
“No, you very specifically told me not to make nuts and bolts fly, ‘cause ya didn’t want Sweden to get upset when his bed fell apart again.”  
  
Finland laughs heartily, doesn’t say anything else. He returns to slicing tomatoes for the salad after that. The corner of the violet-blue eye that Norway can see is crinkled up in laughter, and that’s nice, to know that he put those crinkles there.  
  
He slathers his honey-mustard mixture on the salmon, gets the rest of the preparations done as well, and then puts the whole thing in the oven. Finland starts singing along again, going way too high for his vocal range. It’s awfully domestic, and awfully nice.  
  
Norway gets some potatoes baking, tries to do part of a duet when Finland glances at him expectantly. Enjoys watching the Finn double over in laughter when his voice cracks.  
  
“That is ridiculous,” Finland snickers.  
  
“Which is why I don’t normally listen to this kind of music.”  
  
There’s a stretch of silence, then, and Norway looks up to find Finland smiling in wonder.  
  
“I hadn’t even realized,” Finland says. “You put on my favorite kind of music because I was coming. That’s so thoughtful.”  
  
His grin is so blinding that Norway has to turn his face away to look at the potatoes. His mushy side is usually well-hidden, but Finland has a way of bringing it out. So does Iceland, for that matter, but in an entirely different way. There’s no fucking chance he’d voluntarily listen to any of the weird stuff his brother calls music. No, Finland – Finland has proven himself an exception to lots of things Norway knows about himself.  
  
“Hey,” the man in question says, from close by. “Does this taste alright to you?”  
  
Norway automatically opens his mouth, and Finland chuckles, pushes something cold between his lips. His thumb lingers, pressing gently.  
  
“Nothin’ wrong with it,” Norway judges after swallowing the bit of tomato. “Why d’you ask?”  
  
There’s no answer from the other man. He swipes his thumb over Norway’s lower lip instead, no doubt feeling how dry it is, then follows it with his mouth, pressing it against the corner of Norway’s. The Norwegian nation turns his head the fraction of a degree that’s needed to make it an actual kiss. He tastes salad dressing and tomatoes on Finland’s lips.  
  
Suddenly, the Finn is gone. Norway opens his eyes and sees him smirking wickedly.  
  
“Watch the potatoes, Nor! We don’t want burned food.”  
  
“And _I’m_ the evil one,” Norway mutters under his breath.

* * *

Everything comes out nicely, in the end, even if Finland did eat a lot of tomatoes while making the salad.  
  
“I like tomatoes!” he says when Norway points this out.  
  
“Yeah, and I like salmon, but it’s still all there, isn’t it?”  
  
Finland pouts. “It was raw. You’re not actually as weird as Netherlands and Japan. You don’t eat raw fish.”  
  
“I feel like you’re insultin’ me, Fin,” Norway says, mock-angry.  
  
“Oh no,” the Finn deadpans. Then he smiles. “Come on, let’s go eat. I’m still hungry.”  
  
So they take their plates to the living room and set them down on the nicely dressed dining table. Norway notices that a candle has gone out; flicks a finger in its direction to light it once more. He enjoys watching Finland take it in, the way his dark eyes soften and crinkle up again. He didn’t do a lot, just got out a nice tablecloth and put some candles on the table, dug up some really old crystal glasses, but it does create a nice atmosphere, altogether.  
  
A slower song starts playing, all dramatic flutes and violins.  
  
They’re mostly silent as they eat. Neither of them are the sort of people who thrive on conversation, and they relax in comfortable silence, only breaking it to comment on the food every once in a while, or to ask the other to hand them something. Norway thinks people might be surprised at how little Finland says when he doesn’t deem it necessary, but he’s usually only talking to fill Sweden’s awkward silences. It’s something they agree on; the ability to enjoy the quiet is a great thing.  
  
And salmon. Salmon is also a great thing, Norway thinks.  
  
“Remember when we had to find all our food ourselves?” Finland asks absentmindedly. His own plate is almost empty.  
  
“Good old times,” Norway replies. He doesn’t really know if he means it or not. “Did ya have enough?”  
  
“Yeah, of course! Leaving room for dessert!”  
  
Norway chuckles and eats his own salmon.  
  
When they’re both done with their food, they sit in silence for a while, listening to the music. Finland’s socked foot wriggles its way underneath Norway’s pant leg, and the Finn grins when Norway raises an eyebrow at him, then plants his elbows on the table and leans forward.  
  
“So how about that dessert?”  
  
Norway raises the other eyebrow as well. “I really made ya curious, didn’t I?”  
  
Finland’s toes curl themselves against his leg. “Come on. You’re a great baker, and I fucking love pastries.”  
  
“Match made in heaven,” Norway chuckles.  
  
“Match made in _Denmark_ ,” Finland says, which is true, because it was in Denmark that they got together. It has become a running joke. On Finland’s, Iceland’s and Denmark’s parts, that is. Norway is not so impressed by it.  
  
“Well, now you’re definitely not gettin’ anything.” He retracts his leg from Finland’s reach for good measure.  
  
Finland puts the exaggerated pout on, which he knows no one can resist, let alone Norway.  
  
The Norwegian nation sighs and gives in, “It’s nothin’ fancy. I made dark chocolate cake, with those, ah—” He wriggles his fingers in the air, trying to remember the English word for it, but Finland reaches out to stop them, curling his own shorter fingers around Norway’s bony hands.  
  
“It sounds great already,” he says, in Norwegian. “And I want to taste.”  
  
Never get between Finland and food.  
  
Norway looks up at his boyfriend, starts to say something in Norwegian, then switches to halting Finnish, “I thought— We could watch a movie, and eat the cake during that? It’s very heavy for a dessert.” And he loves the way Finland’s eyes light up at him speaking his language, bad as it is. Or he might just be happy about the prospect of food.  
  
“Sure. Which movies do you have?”

* * *

Many people would probably be appalled at the notion of finding horror movies romantic, and many people would also very much be opposed to eating during horror movies, but, well – those people are not Finland and Norway.  
  
It’s not even a particularly good horror movie – something about zombie Nazis in Norway, which, honestly, _what_? – but at least three parts of the fun of horror movies is laughing at them and pointing out mistakes, so that’s alright. Norway has drawn his legs up underneath himself on the couch, and he’s leaning into Finland, who is balancing the fucking delicious chocolate cake on his knees, occasionally threatening to spill it because he’s laughing at something on the TV. His arm is slung around Norway, though, fingers of his right hand trailing absentminded patterns into his shoulder. The Norwegian nation has taken up feeding him pieces of cake, enjoying the way his mouth opens thoughtlessly when a fork nears, and very much enjoying the appreciative sounds he makes when he’s chewing. He’s not sure what’s going on in the movie. Finland is infinitely more interesting.  
  
Another piece of cake goes in the direction of Finland’s mouth, but then there is a horrible squelching sound from the TV and the Finn turns his face a little to laugh, and the cake ends up smudging the corner of lips and falling down his opened dress shirt.  
  
“Aw,” he says, looking down.  
  
Norway puts his fork down on the plate and picks the fallen cake up to eat it himself, and then, because his fingers are dirty and he has Finland’s attention now, he slowly licks his fingers clean, looking his boyfriend in the eye. Finland smirks a little, and there’s still a smudge on his cheek, so Norway reaches up to lick that as well, pointing his tongue and running it along the seam of the man’s lips.  
  
“Hmh,” Finland hums. But then he parts his lips just a little, allowing Norway to capture his bottom lip between his own; turns his head.  
  
Norway scoots a little closer to him, shuffling until he doesn’t have to bend his neck so awkwardly anymore. Someone is shouting in bad German on the TV, so the nation turns it off with a thoughtless hand gesture. He’d much rather Finland’s attention be completely on him. Finland smiles against his lips. He tastes sweet, like chocolate cake and cranberry tea.  
  
“So,” the Finn murmurs, barely pulling away from Norway, “so much for the movie, then?”  
  
Norway runs teeth gently over his lip. “I can tell ya how it ends, if ya like.”  
  
“Hm. I’d guess every person but one dies, and the zombies get miraculously defeated.”  
  
“Correct,” Norway says, and then he fits his lips over Finland’s again, because kissing him is much more appealing than Nazi zombies.  
  
It’s a little dark now that the TV is off, the still-burning candles providing the majority of the light, but it’s oddly nostalgic this way. Nostalgic, and intimate. Norway’s heavy curtains do their best at keeping the night out, the light in – the warmth in and the cold out. The world has come a long way to get to this point, where it’s possible for Norway to kiss Finland on his couch and feel safe and warm and for Finland to move a little and spill the remaining bit of chocolate cake on the wooden floorboards and pull away from Norway to look sheepish and say,  
  
“So much for the cake.”  
  
Norway rolls his eyes, resumes kissing him.  
  
Finland lets himself be pushed to his back and swings his legs up on the couch as Norway crawls over him, deepens the kiss. His hands land in the Norwegian nation’s hair while their tongues meet in a hot, wet tangle. For all that they don’t speak much, they’ve found other uses for their mouths. Norway splays a hand over Finland’s chest, fingertips resting on his collarbone, and uses the other arm to support himself. The couch is wide enough that they don’t have to worry about following the cake down if they move too much.  
  
Finland hums against Norway’s mouth, then pulls away to breathe. Norway kisses down his jaw and his neck. He’s moving his fingers slowly over the man’s chest, enjoying the warmth. It’s not long before Finland gives his hair a soft but insistent tug, urging him to come back up to kiss his mouth again. Norway smiles slightly, but complies. He lowers his body on to Finland’s as their lips meet again – earns a low moan in reward.  
  
When they separate for air this time, Norway sits back on his knees, dragging Finland with him. The Finn smiles at him, lips slick and a little red, and Norway can’t resist stealing another kiss, folding his hands around his jaw. He looks at Finland for a few moments, thumbs stroking his cheeks, and then slides his hands down to push the dress shirt off his shoulders. Finland grins again, shrugs out of the garment.  
  
It takes a lot more kissing – because it’s amazingly hard to stop once you’ve started and when it’s so sweet – and a lot of wandering hands until they’ve finally got Norway’s sweater and both their undershirts off as well. Norway is straddling Finland now, knees on either side of the man’s hips. And they’re both a little flushed, but Norway loves how that looks on Finland, the light freckles standing out more than ever. He smoothes his hair back from his warm face, tucks it behind his ear thoughtlessly, and Finland laughs and pulls it free again. When Norway raises his eyebrows, he shrugs, circles his arm around the nation’s neck to peck his mouth, then kisses across his cheek, the sensitive skin underneath his eyes.  
  
Norway runs his hands over Finland’s arms, across his shoulder blades and down his sides, ending at the edge of his jeans, where his thumbs stroke slow circles into the soft skin. Finland’s hands bury themselves in his hair, and the Finn arches his back a little to bring himself closer to Norway. Norway kisses his jaw, then rests his forehead in the junction of neck and shoulder; rocks his hips against Finland’s groin, earning a low groan. Norway smiles, rocks again. His own cock started stirring during the kissing, and he has no doubt that Finland is aroused as well, especially when he presses his crotch down against the man’s own, eliciting another groan and Finland’s hands tightening in his hair.  
  
It takes a bit of fumbling for Norway to get Finland’s jeans open, but when he does, he reaches inside to pull the man’s semi-hard length out. He circles his fingers loosely around it, feels Finland's breath hot across his neck.  
  
Then he’s being pushed back, losing most contact with Finland. He gazes down at the man questioningly. Finland cocks his head and reaches for Norway’s zipper, but, no, there are more efficient ways to do this. Norway grabs Finland’s hands to guide them back to _his_ pants, then starts undoing his own. It doesn’t take long for Finland to get it, and soon they’re both naked – and Norway’s about 74 percent sure Finland threw his jeans on the sticky chocolate cake, but they’ll worry about that later. For now, he gets his hands around his boyfriend’s hips again, and when he rocks against him this time, it’s wonderful skin-to-skin contact, and Finland’s eyes close.  
  
Norway looks down at him, and he wants to tell him how fucking beautiful he finds him, but there’s better ways to do that too, so he pushes the man down and starts shuffling backwards, dragging his hand over Finland’s sides as he goes.  
  
Finland props himself up on his elbows to watch Norway as he kisses his belly, gets a hand around his cock again. It’s harder now, hot and smooth under Norway’s palm.  
  
A deep groan, low in Finland’s throat, has Norway looking up through a haze of blond hair at him, and he smiles a little, squeezes his erection. Finland gathers up Norway’s hair to get it out of his eyes. It’s getting long – maybe he’ll let it grow out for a while. He’ll ask Finland what he thinks later.  
  
Norway bites his lower lip, flicks his eyes between Finland’s face and his cock while raising his eyebrows, and the Finn nods. His face is the picture of anticipation. Nodding as well, mostly to himself, Norway leans down to flick his tongue over the head of Finland’s cock. He gets an eager hum in response – not that he expected anything else – so he does it again. And again, and again, and then he slides his lips around the smooth tip, and Finland’s hand tightens marginally in his hair. He sucks lightly, teases with his teeth just a tiny bit, because he knows Finland likes it that way.  
  
He slides his lips gradually further down, bobbing his head slowly, until he’s as far down as he’s going to get when the plan is not to deep-throat anyone, which it isn’t today. Finland’s cock is hot and heavy against his tongue, and the man’s hand is reassuring in his hair. Norway looks up through his lashes, revels in seeing Finland’s face slack with pleasure. He runs his free hand over the Finn’s inner thigh, across his hip, down his leg, brushes briefly against his balls. Finland gasps, and Norway has to suppress the urge to grin.  
  
He keeps alternating between sliding his lips around Finland’s length and licking in languid strokes up his cock, and Finland keeps breathing out in little moans, bucking up occasionally. After a while, Norway slides his hand around his boyfriend’s balls again, pulls off his cock and presses his finger against his perineum. Finland’s hips buck up and he curses. Norway smirks up at him, does it again.  
  
“Fuck,” Finland says, and then, “This is isn’t fair, Nor. Come here.”  
  
Norway raises an eyebrow at him.  
  
Finland mirrors the expression, but he wriggles his eyebrow a little bit, which says enough, so Norway gives a last long lick up his cock, swirling his tongue around the head, and crawls up until his face is hovering over Finland’s. The man smiles and reaches up to kiss him, but his right hand finds its way down to Norway’s cock and slides around it, hot and dry.  
  
Norway wriggles around. Finland breaks the kiss to look at him, gaze questioning, but then he breaks out in a smile again, an apologetic one, and brings his hand back up to lick his palm. This time, when he slides around Norway’s erection, it’s hot and damp, which is better. Norway sighs, kisses Finland’s neck. He feels, more than hears, the answering hum in the man’s throat.  
  
Slowly, Norway lowers his hips, until they touch Finland’s. Finland hums in pleasure and opens his hand to find his own erection and bring it together with Norway’s, creating a tantalizing slip-slide of skin and heat. His other hand weaves its way through Norway’s hair again, as the Norwegian nation rocks his hips languidly. Slow waves of arousal are pushing through his body, spilling out of his mouth in low moans when he’s not biting his lip to contain the sounds. Finland breathes heavily through his mouth.  
  
They’re not loud people.  
  
They rock against each other like that for a while, slow and warm, and Norway thinks most of the candles are out by now, but he can’t summon the energy needed to create more sources of light, and besides, this is nice. Finland’s body is a canvas of light and shadows, pale skin marred with centuries of living, and Norway fucking loves him. He presses his forehead against Finland’s and starts rocking his hips faster. Finland bucks up in response, moves his hand a little more urgently. Norway sees his eyes close, but he keeps his open, looking down the Finn’s nose to where their cocks are sliding against each other. His lower arms frame Finland’s head, fingertips just brushing his hair, spread out on the couch like a halo.  
  
A warm, tingling feeling starts to build in Norway’s groin. He bites his lip, breathing heavily though his nose.  
  
Finland’s breathing is speeding up, and eventually, he cuts off a gasp, bucks his hips up stutteringly, and comes undone with a deep groan, spilling himself hot against Norway. Norway watches his face go slack, and the tingling is still building throughout his body. Finland’s hand doesn’t stop moving around him.  
  
“C’mon,” the Finn breathes.  
  
“I love you,” Norway whispers, and then the tingling feeling culminates into white-hot pleasure as he comes.  
  
Finland curses.  
  
When he’s ridden out his orgasm, Norway collapses on top of his boyfriend. His nose is pressed against the man’s cheek, so he can feel him smile.  
  
“I love you too,” Finland murmurs. He’s stroking large circles over Norway’s back.  
  
They lie in satisfied silence for a while, but then the sticky wetness between their stomachs starts getting uncomfortable, so Norway waves a hand vaguely to summon a wet cloth and cleans them up. Finland chuckles lazily.  
  
“Wish you could teach me that.”  
  
Norway smiles. “Sorry. Either ya have it or ya don’t.”  
  
“Hm. ‘S okay. At least I have you.”  
  
“Yeah.” Norway looks down at Finland, who’s smiling at him. “You do.”  
  
Finland nods. “Let’s just… Lie here for a while.”  
  
So Norway banishes the cloth to – he’s not really sure where, but it’s gone – and then reaches down to grab the quilt he keeps next to couch. He chuckles when he sees that Finland _did_ throw his jeans on the chocolate cake. He’ll clean that up later.  
  
Pulling the quilt over both of them, Norway curls up next to Finland, one leg draped over his.  
  
“You know what’s strange?” Finland asks, and here comes the customary weird after-sex revelation.  
  
“What?” Norway responds, because what can you do.  
  
“Why is death metal called death metal when it’s much more powerful than power metal? It’s not dead at all.”  
  
Norway hums, traces a pattern into Finland’s chest.  
  
“Zombie metal,” Finland says, and Norway kisses him, because the last thing he wants to talk about right now is zombies. Finland grins against his mouth, so he probably knew that, but he’s silent when Norway pulls away, trailing a hand through his hair instead.  
  
The last candle burns out, so it’s nearly completely dark now.  
  
Finland and Norway barely notice.


End file.
